


Thomas McGregor's Wilderness Survival Guide

by RuArcher (Coriesocks)



Series: Star Wars fics [4]
Category: Logan Lucky (2017), Peter Rabbit (2018), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Accidental Kissing, Awkwardness, Car Trouble, Clyde is a Gentleman, Drinking, First Kiss, First Meetings, Fluff, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Insecurity, M/M, Misunderstandings, Sharing Clothes, Unexpected Kiss, Year of Kylux, author knows nothing about west virginia, kylux adjacent, past Thomas/Bea, protective Mellie, the glory of tea, thomas is thirsty, thomas on holiday
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:22:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28939914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coriesocks/pseuds/RuArcher
Summary: ‘Go take a holiday,’ Bea had said. ‘You need to unwind, discover who Thomas really is.’ What a ridiculous notion. If anyone other than Bea had said it to him, he’d have politely told them where to go. But because it was Bea, and because she was unfailingly nice, and consistently gave objectively good advice, he’d agreed. Booked the tickets the next week as she watched proudly over his shoulder.In line with all his expectations, Thomas McGregor’s holiday is nothing but a series of disasters. But then Clyde happens, and things start to take an interesting turn.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Clyde Logan/Thomas McGregor
Series: Star Wars fics [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2079093
Comments: 35
Kudos: 81
Collections: Year of Kylux





	1. The importance of good car maintenance. (or, knowing when to admit defeat)

**Author's Note:**

> For the Year of Kylux prompt: Awkward first meeting
> 
> I have a few chapters outlined but no real plan other than to try fit them to other prompts, so let's just see what happens :sweats:  
> The E rating is for later chapters so don't get too excited just yet!
> 
> [Now featuring a beautiful cover by Hess!](https://coriesocks.tumblr.com/post/644220428697698304/thank-you-to-the-wonderful-hess-for-this-edit-i)

Thomas forces the car up another incline, foot almost flat on the floor while he urges it to keep going with a constant stream of muttered invectives. The steering wheel vibrates with worrying intensity. It’s making his hands tingle, and they’re starting to feel a little numb, but he daren’t loosen his grip lest the car decide to lurch off the road like it’s been threatening to do since he hit that curb a couple of days ago.

_Clunk._

Thomas grimaces. He’s not all that knowledgeable about cars, but he’s pretty sure they’re not supposed to make that noise. He flicks his eyes to the rear view mirror, certain that something vital had fallen off, but the road behind is clear; there’s no trail of smoking debris, no wheel bouncing off into the distance, no chunk of engine.

_Clunk. Clunkclunkclunk._

_Hssssssss._

A wisp of steam, or perhaps smoke, curls up from under the bonnet. He’s quite certain that’s not a good sign. Not good at all.

The car sputters as he crests the slope and Thomas manages to guide it to the side of the road before it conks out completely. He sighs. Extracts himself from the sky-blue-and-rust monstrosity and tries to shake some feeling back into his hands. Kicks a tyre. The blasted vehicle has felt more like a noose around his neck than a means for exploring this wretched country the past week and he’s surprised it even lasted so long. 

What had he been thinking, coming here in the first place? He hadn’t, was the short answer. ‘Go take a holiday,’ Bea had said. ‘You need to unwind, discover who Thomas really is.’ What a ridiculous notion. If anyone other than Bea had said it to him, he’d have politely told them where to go. But because it was Bea, and because she was unfailingly _nice_ , and consistently gave objectively _good_ advice, he’d agreed. Booked the tickets the next week as she watched proudly over his shoulder.

And thanks to that temporary bout of madness, he’s now stuck at the side of the road in a foreign country with no idea of where exactly he is nor how far he has to go until the nearest petrol station or motel. Why was America so bloody big? Why had he not just walked away when he’d seen the glint in that car salesman’s eye? And why, on God’s green earth, had he decided to travel ‘off the beaten track’? He’ll be having words with Bea when he finally gets home, that’s for sure. _If_ he ever gets home, that is. How dare she put nonsense like this in his head? He isn’t a ‘holiday’ person, he knows this. _She_ knows this. There are too many variables, too much is out of his control, too many things that can (and will) go wrong. He’d been perfectly content pottering in his garden, plotting the demise of Harrods, coming up with new ideas to ‘humanely’ deal with his vermin problem. Vermin who were no doubt running riot over his property in his absence. 

He walks around the car and, after a little jiggling and prodding, manages to get the bonnet open. For all the good it does. He stares at the gently hissing engine, hands on his hips, waiting for inspiration to strike. What he needs is an obvious sign of ‘brokenness’. A screw that needs tightening, perhaps. A cap that needs closing. It might be only the third or fourth time he’s ever looked at the engine of a car, though, and he literally has no idea what he’s looking at. He reaches in to poke a rusty looking... thing, and yelps as it burns his fingers. That’s about the same time he remembers that smoke and engines are a bad combination. It doesn’t smell like smoke though. It smells like … well. It smells like damp and oil and there’s a weird mustiness, like something furry crawled into the engine to dry and died. So, hopefully it isn’t about to explode. God, that really would be the cherry on top of this disastrous holiday.

After a few more minutes of staring—at a slightly safer distance this time, _just in case_ —Thomas admits defeat. He needs a mechanic. He grabs his bag from the passenger seat and digs around for his phone, eventually finding it at the bottom, wedged between a book on native birds of prey and an out-of-date travel guide about the Appalachian mountains. The tiny spark of hope is quickly snuffed out when he realises it’s completely dead. He probably should have charged it, he realises. A fairly unhelpful thought to have now, but he rarely uses the thing so it never normally occurs to him to charge it. The only person who texts him is Bea and she does that a lot less since they broke up. Which is understandable, he supposes. So. It looks like he’s truly on his own, just him and the ratty old manual he’d found in the glove compartment, stuck in this wilderness until he either learns how to fix a car through trial and error, or gives up and starts walking. 

He glances around. The stillness is overwhelming, oppressive. It’s unnervingly different to the quiet he’s grown used to in the Lake District. There’s bird song, but it sounds distant, the trees swallowing the noise. They’re are so tall, they almost block out the sun, stretching up towards the sky. They remind him of the tall buildings in London more than they do the woods surrounding his home. _Home._

It’s only been a week and he already misses it terribly. Not the wildlife. He’s been glad to see the back of that, but everything else; the colour of the sky, the feel of the air, the taste of the water. It shouldn’t feel so wrong that everything is different here, but it does. At least he’s gotten used to driving on the wrong side of the road. That was a bit hairy at the start. It only took facing down one huge truck to scare the tendency to drift across the carriageway out of him. 

An animal screeches somewhere out of sight and Thomas shudders. He scans the undergrowth, which suddenly looks ten times more threatening, but there’s nothing obvious lurking there. He thinks back to a book he’d flicked through when Bea had first implanted the idea of this jolly in his head—Fauna of North America—and wishes he’d spent a little more time memorising in which parts of North America the toothiest beasts resided. Were there bears here? Cougars? Wolves? Was he about to get mauled by raccoons? As much as he doesn’t want to abandon his only source of shelter, he doesn’t fancy spending the night in the woods, leaving himself at the mercy of whatever prowled the forest after dark. He checks his watch. He reckons he’s got a good few hours of daylight left—surely that’ll be enough time to get to somewhere with a phone so he can call for help? God he hopes so.

A twig crack somewhere off to the left, deep within the shadows. He whips his head around and peers into the gloom but still can’t see anything except tree trunks and bushes. He swears he can feel eyes on him, though. It’s a feeling he’s well familiar with from home and it kicks his fight or flight instincts up a notch.

A high pitched chittering breaks the silence next. Thomas’s heart leaps fully into his throat and he spins around again to find a… a fancy looking striped squirrel sat upon a tree stump at the edge of the tree line. Was this the creature that had screeched? Was this one, tiny beast the cause of his unease?

“Oh. What do you want?” 

The furry little creature (Thomas isn’t sure it actually is a squirrel. It’s too stripy for a start, and there’s a degree of bushiness missing from it’s tail, but what else could it be?) stares at him, black, beady eyes judging. 

“Come to laugh, have you? Mock my misfortune?” He shakes his head, laughs at himself. “Or perhaps you’ve come to watch me get disembowelled by an eagle.”

It continues to stare; rubs its tiny paws over its furry, judgemental face but remains silent. 

Thomas huffs, exasperated with himself as much as the situation. _Of course_ it remains silent. “Why am I always talking to wildlife? What did I expect would happen?” 

The creature twitches his nose. Thomas narrows his eyes. As long as he doesn’t have an army of friends hidden in the bushes, Thomas supposes he’ll be okay if this is what was lurking in the bushes. He’s not wearing a tiny jacket, at least, which is a small reassurance.

“I’m watching you. If you try any funny business, I’ll… I’ll…” He pauses. Thinks. He’s got nothing on him but a suitcase full of clothes, his toiletries. A few packets of goldfish crackers he’d bought when he’d last stopped. “Just don’t try anything. I’ve dealt with vermin like you before, so if you think you further can sabotage my car or nibble my fingers off—”

“Excuse me? Sir? You okay?”

Thomas spins around mid-rant. There’s a truck in the road—big, red, obnoxious—and the driver is leaning over to peer out of the passenger-side window. Thomas can’t see much of him, but from what he _can_ see, the man is huge. Terrifyingly so. A peaked cap casts shadows across his face, but his oddly large, yet strangely attractive features are still visible, and Thomas can feel the intensity of his gaze even a car’s length away. How long had he been sat there, watching Thomas shout at nature? And why had he stopped to watch? What could he possibly want?

A sudden burst of panic grips his chest as it dawns on him how potentially dangerous the situation is—his car is broken, he has no clue where he is, and his phone is dead—he’s completely at this stranger’s mercy. He needs the man to move along so he can get on with the task of not knowing how to fix his car.

_Reassure the stranger you know exactly what you’re doing and he’ll go away,_ he tells himself, ignoring the voice that jumps in with: _‘Not if he’s a serial killer!’_

“I’m fine!” he says. “Fine, fine, fine. Just, um. Catching up with one of the locals.” Thomas turns, gestures at the tree stump where the maybe-squirrel is sat judging him from, and… it’s gone. Scarpered. Which is great. Just brilliant. He now looks like a crazy man who’d been yelling at wood.

“Okay.” Confusion flickers across the man’s face, but it’s gone in an instant, expression falling blank again. “Only, you seem to be havin’ a little trouble with your vehicle.”

Thomas blinks. The man’s accent is so thick, Thomas struggles to understand him but he’s suddenly desperate to hear more. His voice is like nothing he’s ever heard before. It’s slow and hypnotic. Warm. Like an aural hug. It rumbles through him like marbles rolling down wooden stairs. 

“Sir?” the man prompts, and Thomas realises he’s staring.

It’s tempting to accept the assistance, not least because the stranger is rather easy on the eye. And it’s not that he doesn’t need the help, but… he’s rather keen on not getting murdered. He’s watched enough films set in the US to know exactly what happens to people who blithely accept help from handsome strangers at the side of the road. They end up being eaten. (And not in the pleasurable sense.) Either that or chopped into tiny pieces and fed to raccoons. “I’m absolutely fine,” he says with a dismissive wave. “No problems here.” 

“Are you sure?”

_No._ “Absolutely. Nothing to worry about,” he adds. “I’m sure it’ll be fine as soon as it stops…uh… being…like this.” He plasters on his best customer service smile and walks over to his car. It’s still hissing; still emitting a strange, weirdly organic smell. He pats it, hoping he looks like a person who is completely confident in his current situation.

The man grunts and tugs the peak of his cap; settles back in the driver’s seat without another word. Thomas assumes this means he’s leaving and he’s simultaneously relieved, disappointed, and offended. The stranger didn’t deign to even say goodbye—how rude!—but then the truck swings around and pulls in behind his own car.

_Blast it._

This is it then. He’s about to be bundled into the boot and sold for parts. He contemplates running away, but that would mean either running into the trees and having to contend with whatever lives there as well as this unnecessarily broad stranger, or… tearing off down the road and hoping he can outrun a man in a truck. Neither option is particularly enticing. He scans the ground for a weapon, but sees only pathetic looking twigs, a flattened coke can. This is definitely the end, then. He hopes Bea isn’t too sad about his passing. Maybe she won’t even be told. She’ll just assume he ‘found himself’ and decided not to come back. Oh well.

The gravel at the side of the road crunches as the man gets out of his car. His footsteps are heavy, purposeful. Thomas is scared to look, but at the same time, his eyes are drawn to him. He likes to think he doesn’t gawp, but there is no pretending his mouth doesn’t fall open when he takes in the sheer mass of the stranger for the first time. Initial impressions had been right—the man is huge. And solid. He looks like he was carved out of the mountains themselves. They’re of a height, Thomas realises, as the man draws near, but that’s where the similarity ends. 

He feels his knees give an involuntary wibble and tries to subtly lean on the bonnet to take some of the weight off. He’d rather not slide to the ground in front of this unfairly built man. He swallows. Prays desperately that his smile hasn’t slipped into a grimace. His heart is racing and it’s only partly due to terror at his imminent kidnap and dissection. God, he might even welcome it, he thinks, imagining being manhandled by the stranger’s strong, capable hands—ah, hand. His attention is caught by the prosthetic and he wonders what had happened before he politely flicks his eyes away. Not before the stranger notices where his glance had fallen, though. Thomas sees him press his lips together, relaxed gait tensing for a second. 

Thomas’s cheeks flush and he stifles the urge to blurt out an apology as the man sidles up beside him. 

“Clyde,” he says.

Thomas stares. Again. He’d seen the man’s lips move, heard a sound but his brain refuses to parse it. “I… I’m sorry. What was that?” 

“Name’s Clyde. Clyde Logan. What seems to be the problem?”

“Oh, um, Thomas. Is my name. I mean. I’m Thomas. Nice to meet you.” He winces. He can’t ramble to this man. He’s a serial killer. (Probably.) (…possibly.) He needs to keep things impersonal and stop looking at his broad chest. And those full lips. That thick dark hair, long enough to graze the tops of his shoulders, and which looks so soft. Thomas wants to reach out and pet it. 

“You’re not from around here.” It’s not a question. Thomas feels the cold prickle of dread across the back of his neck. An indecipherable look passes across Clyde’s face as he glances past Thomas, into the car. No doubt checking for others, assuming that Thomas is unattached, alone in a foreign country. Easy pickings for a roadside murderer. “You here by yourself?”

Should he lie? Say his friend is in the bushes communing with nature? No… that would never work—what if Clyde waits? Then Thomas would be stuck trying to perpetuate the lie, having to invent new and more creative reasons for his friend’s prolonged absence. 

“No, I’m just… passing through. I have a friend, though. Several friends. I have many friends. But this one friend in particular, she knows where I am.” God, he wants to shoot himself. He may have well have said ‘please don’t murder me.’

“She’s coming to help you?”

“Ah…” _Lie, Thomas. Lie your pasty, white arse off. This is the perfect opportunity._ “No? No, not as such.” 

“Huh.” Clyde frowns. Thomas doesn’t blame him. He’s frowning at himself too. “You want me to take a look? I’m not much of a mechanic, but what my sister, Mellie, don’t know about cars ain’t worth knowin’ so I can call her up if it’s something complicated.”

That voice. Thomas could happily drown in it. But no, he has to stay strong. Send this… Clyde on his way. 

“That really won’t be necessary. I’m perfectly capable of fixing the old girl by myself.”

Clyde’s brows knit together. He looks between Thomas and the gently hissing engine. “You sure?”

“Absolutely. It’s the… um. The… thingy.” Thomas makes a sweeping gesture that encompasses the whole engine. “It’s clearly too hot. Just… um. Needs time to cool down.” He’s definitely heard someone in overalls say something like that before. It sounds authentic. Sort of. He would have been convinced, at least. He risks a glance at Clyde and isn’t remotely reassured by the faintly confused, dubious look on his face.

Clyde leans over, peers into the engine. He’s so close, his shoulder brushes Thomas’ and Thomas gets a whiff of his strong, manly odour over the top of the weird car stink. It’s enough to make his knees wibble again. Thomas is torn between scared and turned on. He’s always been weak for overt masculinity, but there seems to be something soft about Clyde too. Though how he could know this after just a few minutes is beyond him. There’s just something in how slow and deliberate he appears, both in speech and action. Everything is considered. There is nothing frivolous. It could all be a ruse, though, this kindness. It’s not normal. The only person he’s ever met who has been so selflessly kind is Bea, and Thomas knows she’s unique. Certainly, no one else he’s ever met has done anything without expecting something in return. Clyde will reveal his terms soon enough, he’s sure; his murderous, handsome, serial killer terms.

Clyde remains blissfully unaware of Thomas’ mental gymnastics as he pokes around in the engine. Uncaps something. Caps it back up. Pulls a long thin… thing out of the engine, wipes it on a rag he’s produced from somewhere, pops it back and pulls it out again to inspect it. Makes a few noises that Thomas associates with mechanics or plumbers or electricians who are getting ready to charge him fifty pounds for a single screw. 

“Can’t see nothing obvious,” he says after a short while, “but the whole thing’s in a bit of a mess. Sorry.” He looks apologetic, as if it’s his fault the car salesman saw Thomas coming from a mile off. “Can I give you a ride somewhere? Or I could call Mellie. Sure she won’t mind comin’ out to take a look.” 

“Oh, that really won’t be necessary,” he replies, aiming for politely dismissive. No need to poke the bear. And the last thing he needs is to allow Clyde to summon ‘help’. “I don’t want to be bother.” 

“It’s no bother.” 

“Honestly, I’m fine.” God, this man is persistent. No doubt he just wants to get Thomas to get in the car with him. Not that he needs to get Thomas in his car. There’s not been another person drive past in all the time Thomas has been here. Clyde could get away with whatever nefarious plan he had in mind right here at the side of the road. 

Clyde adjusts his hat. “If you’re sure?”

“Yes, thank you for your help, but please don’t let me keep you.”

“Okay, well. Good luck. If you’re sticking around the area, you should come to—”

“I’m not. Sticking around, that is. My friend lives… away from here. Far enough that I won’t be back.”

It’s only as he watches Clyde drive away that he entertains the idea that Clyde probably hadn’t been trying to murder him after all, and perhaps he should have accepted the help offered. He looks around at the trees—the shadows are already lengthening and thick, dark clouds are starting to roll across the sky. It’s going to rain, then. Brilliant. He glares at the car; glares at his useless hands. From the undergrowth, he hears a faint chittering and his heart sinks. 

If he survives the night, it’ll be a miracle.


	2. The importance of wearing the right shoes (Or, the art of seduction and how not to do it.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas stumbles into a bar to escape the rain and is surprised to find a familiar face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Year of Kylux prompt "Unexpected kiss"
> 
> Many thanks to Hess - sorry not sorry for dragging you into this tiny raft of a ship. You've been an amazing source of inspiration <3

The rain is coming down in sheets. Still. A solid wall of water. Thunder rumbles through the air, barely pausing for breath. The only light comes from the tiny head torch Thomas is wearing, which he’d packed in a rare moment of uncanny foresight. He keeps his head forward, casting a pool of light on the wet tarmac just in front of him—it’s enough to help him avoid potholes or roadkill. He’s convinced he saw a pair of sickly yellow eyes glinting in the undergrowth when he’d last ventured a look, so since then, he’s kept his gaze down. He’d rather not know if anything is out there, but at least the thought of being hunted is enough to keep him putting one foot in front of the other. 

He’s no idea how long he’s been walking now, but his feet throb painfully with each step, his clothes are soaked through, his rucksack and suitcase are completely sodden. He’s miserable. And hungry. He’s rethought every decision he’s ever made. Maybe the rain and cold is making him a little dramatic, but right now, he feels like his whole life has been a disaster, on a crash course to this very evening and he would do anything to go back in time and change anything— _everything_ —so that he doesn’t end up freezing cold, soaked through, traipsing through the pitch-black in the middle of a storm in the arse end of nowhere. He misses his home, his soft carpets, his warm, fluffy dressing gown that staves off even the worst of the chill that seeps from the stone walls of his house. He just wants to be dry again. 

Thomas’ mind keeps returning unbidden to Clyde, his handsome almost-rescuer, the helpful stranger Thomas had turned away like the absolute pillock he always is. God, why had he sent him away? He’s spent hours now trying to convince himself that he’d made the right decision, that Clyde had intended to chop him up into little pieces and feed him to a raccoon, but the wetter, the more dejected he becomes, the harder it is to muster the same suspiciousness. Time and abject misery have given him clarity and led him to the conclusion that there is a strong possibility Clyde probably _hadn’t_ been a serial killer. He was being friendly, for christ’s sake, a thing people are sometimes. And the longer his mind lingers on Clyde, the harder it is to pretend he hadn’t noticed the curve of Clyde’s arse as he’d bent over the engine or the way his biceps strained against his shirt. If only he’d let him help—he could have had more of that!

When Thomas sees the lights of the bar in the distance, he almost falls to his knees in relief. Very nearly sheds a tear. Perhaps he does—the rain is coming down so hard he could have been crying silently for hours and not noticed. A bar means warmth. Food. _Shelter._ He doesn’t even care if it’s one of those local places for local people—his money is as good as anyone else’s, and at this point, he’ll empty his bank account directly into the pockets of the first person who allows him the use of a phone and directs him to the nearest motel.

The bar’s name is Duck Tape, he sees as he draws closer. Thomas tries not to judge it too harshly. He supposes it could be a lot worse. There are a few cars in the car park, and one person is half-collapsed on a chair on the veranda, only just sheltered from the rain by the jut of the roof. Thomas has lost track of what day it is so he’s not sure if it’s good or bad that the bar is seemingly so quiet. He doesn’t care, really. All he can think about is getting dry. He doesn’t care about getting the car getting fixed now. He’s even prepared to swallow the cost of it getting stolen. He _hopes_ it gets stolen. At least then he won’t have to think about it anymore. He can wash his hands of the whole thing and get the next flight home. Tell Bea that he tried his very best to find himself but that it was a lost cause. Maybe she’ll take him back out of pity. Not that he actually wants that.

He pauses on the veranda, stows the head-torch in his bag, and makes a brief but futile attempt to neaten his hair. The man on the veranda mumbles something incoherent and Thomas hurries inside to avoid unnecessary conversation. The door sticks a little bit in the frame when he pushes it, but it gives with a jingle of a bell and a screech of hinges. He stops just inside to get his bearings. It’s very… wooden. Dimly glowing lights cast pools of brightness, softening the shadows and giving the wooden interior a warm hue. The air is thick with moisture, cigarette smoke, the gentle hum of conversation. It’s not a large place, he realises; a bar fills the centre of the room, and tables of various sizes take up the remaining space. The clack of balls tells him there’s a pool table or two out of sight before he spots them, and he can see a jukebox lit up in the corner, which must be the source of the country music. Several of the tables are occupied, a small group play pool, but as he suspected from the outside, it’s not busy. 

As he stands there, he becomes aware of eyes turning towards him, a heavy silence spreading out from his position until there is nothing but the tinny wailing of a female singer from the sound system. Water drips off his hair and trickles down his face. He rubs at it with a wet sleeve, tempted to shake his head like a dog but not keen to get himself kicked out or beaten up. There are a couple of large, bearded men in aggressively American t-shirts sitting a couple of tables away from the entrance and they don’t look like they’d appreciate an impromptu shower. 

Eyes down, he heads towards the bar. He hopes they sell tea. Or hot chocolate. He’ll even settle for coffee at this point—anything to ease the chill from his bones. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of a glowing neon light in the shape of an angry rabbit—it’s so at odds with the general aesthetic of the place that he can’t help but stare. Of all the odd things to have on the wall. A blasted rabbit? Before he can do anything rash, like turn around and walk back into the rain in a fit of pique, he hears his name, unmistakable in the hush that has descended on the bar.

Thomas yanks his attention from the objectionable neon sign and scans the bar. It’s ridiculous to assume that whoever it is wants his attention. No one knows him here, and it’s hardly an uncommon name. But… that voice. It’s so familiar. 

“Thomas.” Again. Louder this time. More certain, intentional.

His eyes land on the dark-haired, broad-shouldered man behind the bar and his heart stutters. “Clyde? What… what are you doing here?” It sounds so accusatory, so suspicious. He wants to grab the words and shove them back down his throat the second they leave his mouth, but there’s nothing that can be done about that now. 

Clyde’s lips twitch. A barely-there amused glint flashes in his eye. He quirks an eyebrow, looks pointedly between the three glasses lined on the bar before him and the bottle in his hand. Thomas then notices the tea towel slung over his shoulder and the dots pretty much join themselves. 

“Ah, right, of course. Stupid question,” he mutters to himself. Ducking his head to hide his embarrassment he covers the short distance to the bar and slips onto a barstool, gladly dropping his sodden luggage to the floor. His hands automatically reach for a beermat and his fingernails click on the edge as he picks at it. He feels Clyde staring. It feels like his eyes are boring straight through him. Water trickles down his back. He’s soaked through to his skin. He must look a right state; tired, wet, crumpled. Embarrassment curls around him. He doesn’t want Clyde to see him like this. (And why is that, his inner voice asks. Unhelpfully.)

Soft light glows from beneath the lip of the counter, casting odd shadows on Clyde’s face, and drawing Thomas’ attention to Clyde’s broad chest, his muscular arms. He’s not wearing a hat now, and his hair falls in thick waves, hiding his ears, and just grazing the top of his shoulders. It frames his face beautifully and Thomas’ hands itch to touch, to run his fingers through it, to see if it’s as silky as it looks. 

As if reading Thomas’ mind, Clyde drags his unreasonably large hand through his hair, and then leans over the bar, that barely-there smile on his lips. 

God, he’s big. Thomas feels positively dwarfed. And ever so slightly aroused. The things he could do…

“What’ll it be?” Clyde asks. 

Thomas blinks. _Had he said any of that out loud?_ “Sorry?” he squeaks, fear tightening his throat.

“Drink? Something to eat? You’re sat in my bar. I gotta assume there’s a reason.”

Oh, right. That actually makes a lot more sense. Thomas lets out the breath he’d been holding. Smiles. He opens his mouth to ask about a phone, but stops himself. It’s probably rude to do that without at least ordering something first, and the last thing he wants to do is annoy Clyde and get kicked out. He squirms on his seat, his damp trousers squeaking on the stool top, and glances around to see what other people are drinking; eyes the collection of spirit bottles behind the bar. Beer or spirits: those appear to be his two choices by the looks of it. Neither sounds particularly appealing right now. “I don’t suppose you have tea?” he asks hopefully.

Clyde’s eyebrows twitch ever so slightly up, but then he tilts his head. “Uh, sure, I’ll see what I can do. Ain’t got nothing fancy though.”

“Hot and wet is all I ask,” Thomas replies, mind already on the feel of the mug that would soon be warming his cold little fingers… But… but then he replays the words in his head and his mouth drops open. “I mean— blast. Um. Anything. It’s— Any tea will be lovely. Thank you.” He closes his eyes, screws up his face. He can’t bring himself to look at Clyde. God, what is wrong with him? If a bottomless pit were to open at his feet right now, he’d gladly pitch himself over the edge.

He hears a soft huff and opens his eyes in time to catch the smirk on Clyde’s face before the man turns. His cheeks look a little pink too, unless Thomas is much mistaken. Pink with secondhand embarrassment or something else…? No. Definitely embarrassment. He’s making a tit of himself, as usual. Clyde’s probably already wishing Thomas had never turned up. 

“I’ll just—” Clyde nods over his shoulder and without another word, he turns, hoists himself up, and slides over the counter. Is he running away? Has he just chased the barman out of his own bar? Thomas looks around. No one seems to find it odd that the barman has just up and left his post, though, so he tries to tamp down his shock. Clearly it’s business as usual. He tries not to imagine old Terry at the Stag and Whistle doing the same thing. 

Clyde disappears through a door Thomas hadn’t noticed on the far side of the bar, leaving Thomas alone with his embarrassment. Clyde probably thinks _Thomas_ is the serial killer, he thinks morosely. Ha. He fiddles with the beermat some more, clicking his nails on the edge of the cardboard as he has another look around the bar. When he feels eyes on him, he looks up and finds a dark-haired woman watching him curiously from the opposite corner of the bar. She narrows her eyes at him and Thomas feels like he’s unintentionally committed a terrible act that is going to get him run out of town. 

He smiles and offers her a small wave but that only seems to anger her further so he looks away and wills Clyde to return. Even though he clearly thinks Thomas is off his rocker, he’s the only familiar face in this place—the only familiar face in this state—and Thomas would very much like the opportunity to convince him that he’s not a complete tit.

By the time Clyde returns, Thomas has separated the beermat into four separate layers and ripped two of them into tiny, perfectly square pieces. Clyde lifts up the bar flap this time and Thomas is a little disappointed by the lack of acrobatics, but since he’s carrying a tray he decides he’ll let him off. He almost says something—something whimsical, amusing, and dare he say _flirtatious_ —about it, but when Clyde sets the tray down in front of him with a shifty glance and a shy smile, the words die in his throat. He stares opened mouthed at the plain white teapot, the small jug of milk, the cup and saucer, and the three chocolate chip cookies. It’s all so… civilised. He’d been expecting a chipped mug with the tea bag suspended in tepid water. Maybe a teaspoon, if he was lucky.

“Thank you,” he says, and truly means it. He could cry; it’s been at least a week since he last saw a teapot.

“You’re most welcome,” Clyde replies. He watches Thomas expectantly and Thomas searches his mind for a reason as to why that might be when it occurs to him that perhaps Clyde is waiting for him to try the tea. Does he want Thomas’ approval? (He’s probably poisoned it and wants to make sure you drink it, supplies the unhelpful voice in his head. The same voice that made him dismiss Clyde’s help in the first place. He doesn’t like that voice.)

“I’ll just, um, wait for it brew a little longer,” he says.

“Sure, right. Okay.” Clyde’s cheeks redden—Thomas is certain of it this time—and he moves away, wiping the bar with a cloth. 

Thomas swears he can feel Clyde’s scrutiny as he waits for the tea to steep, but every time he looks up, Clyde is looking elsewhere. He watches out of the corner of his eye as Clyde serves a patron, collects a few glasses, continues to wipe down the bar in that slow, considered manner. He’s not sure what it is about him, but Thomas can’t stop watching. It’s all he can do not to turn and stare directly. Bea would probably say something about fate, or some other floaty nonsense, drawing them together. It’s not. Fate, that is. He’s just always been drawn to pretty things, enjoys looking at them. And Clyde is… well, not pretty, but he’s curiously handsome. Rugged. It would take a stronger man than Thomas to not want to drink in that inherent masculinity with his gaze, especially when offered a rare second opportunity to do so. There’s nothing wrong with enjoying a nice view. 

Clyde serves another patron, then moves to the opposite corner of the bar to talk to the dark-haired woman—the one who’d been glaring at Thomas. They look familiar with each other, more so than customer and barman. Who is she? A girlfriend? It shouldn’t be surprising that such a handsome, manly man would have a girlfriend. Thomas’s nose scrunches involuntarily and his lip curls into a half-formed sneer.

He’s almost forgotten about his tea when he notices Clyde heading back towards him. He hurriedly pours a cup, adds a splash of milk, stirs it. It smells a little stale, but it’s tea. He’s still incredibly thankful. He takes a sip, keenly aware of Clyde’s eyes on him and...it’s… honestly, it’s not great, but he feels the need to reward the effort Clyde’s clearly made. 

“Lovely,” he says despite the papery bitterness of the tea lingering unpleasantly on his tongue. He stifles a grimace, taking a bite of one of the cookies to cleanse his mouth of the taste. He feels a little guilty about lying but then Clyde’s lips twitch into what Thomas is starting to understand as a beaming smile and the white lie is validated. 

Thomas starts on the second cookie. Hums appreciatively as he takes another sip of his tea. It may taste a little off, but it’s warming him up on the inside, even if that feeling is yet to translate to his outsides. He can’t wait to get out of his soggy clothes—he worries bits of him are going to start to rot and fall off. Clyde is still standing there, just across the counter from him. The silence between them is rapidly becoming awkward. Doesn’t he have bar work to do? Thomas desperately tries to think of something to say to break the silence but his brain can’t focus on anything but Clyde’s appearance. His eyes are drawn to the mole just above his eyebrow, his hair, his flesh hand, his prosthetic. _Don’t stare at the prosthetic,_ he chides himself. He looks away. Studies the bottles, the sheen of the varnish on the bar, the neon rabbit flickering in the corner. But every few seconds his eyes betray him and flick back to Clyde. Entranced by the way his brown eyes seem to glow in the soft lighting, the way his biceps bulge as he cleans the bar, his prosthetic hand. Clyde seems in no particular rush to help ease the stalemate, though. His face is a blank mask as he absently wipes the small patch of bar between them, refills the napkins and stirrers, straightens the straws.

“Iraq,” Clyde says eventually.

Thomas snaps his eyes up to meet Clyde’s steady gaze. Guilt twisting in his stomach. He’d been staring at the prosthetic again. _Get it together, Thomas!_

“Roadside mine as I was transferring out. Trans-radial amputation.” 

Thomas swallows, unsure what to say. He can’t just say nothing. “That’s… nice,” he says, wincing even as the words leave his lips. No. Not that. Stupid, Thomas. “I mean... it… it… suits you..?” Oh God oh God oh God. This is going terribly. “I— blast. I’m so sorry. That was incredibly insensitive. I just mean… um.” He presses his lips together. Swallows again. His brain has ground to a complete halt. He’s going to get thrown out. He’ll have to spend the night under a bush. He’ll never survive. “God. What do I mean?” he squeaks, rubbing at the sudden shooting pain in his chest. Is this what a heart attack feels like? 

“You are…” Clyde seems to be struggling to reach for the right adjective and Thomas’ mind helpfully cycles through a few possibilities: Obnoxious. Over-flowing with buffoonery. A pompous self-righteous twit. A festering sore on the arsehole of society. “…the most peculiar man I’ve ever met,” he finishes, with a small nod.

Thomas tenses, waiting for the rest, but… that seems to be it. And now Clyde is smiling at him. An almost nothing quirk of his lips, but a smile nonetheless. Not an aggressive sneer, not a rage-filled howl. Thomas laughs as the tension drains from his body, stilted at first, but increasing in intensity until he’s creasing over the bar, face buried in his hands. “Oh, God. Oh, I know. I’ve been told that a lot,” he says once he can finally breathe. Clyde is still standing there, head tilted ever so slightly, a faintly bemused expression on his face. Thomas sobers. “You’re not about to kick me out of the bar or murder me, are you?” 

“Why would I do that? I don’t know how folk treat strangers where you’re from, but we got manners here. I’m not gonna kick you out and I sure as shit ain’t gonna murder you.”

“Sorry—I don’t know why I asked that. I… _bother._ Ignore me. It just seemed necessary to clarify the situation before I got too, um, comfortable.”

Clyde looks like he’s about to say something else, but then a patron at the bar demands his attention. He mutters an apology as he walks away and Thomas turns his attention to his remaining cookie. His stomach protests a little at the influx of sugar but it’s better than the sharp hunger pangs of earlier. He should ask Clyde if he has any of those little packets of pork scratchings or some dry roasted nuts for sale, or whatever the American equivalent is.

He looks up and catches the eye of the same woman as before and immediately looks away again. He really doesn’t like how she’s watching him. It’s disconcerting. Like she’s steadily picking him apart with her eyes, or feeding on his soul. 

“You get your vehicle fixed?” Clyde asks, startling Thomas as he licks the cookie crumbs from his lips. How can someone so big move so silently? He’s like a panther.

“Um…” He busies himself with wiping his sticky fingers on his trousers—at least there’s a benefit to having soggy clothes—to give himself time to concoct a response. It’s the perfect opportunity to ask for a phone and get the number of a decent mechanic but… that would mean admitting he’d lied about having everything under control and that he’d dismissed Clyde’s offer of help at the side of the road for no good reason. He feels strangely reluctant to show any sort of weakness or failing in front of this man. He’s going to think Thomas is a right prick, if he doesn’t already. “Um, not exactly, no.”

“Huh. You get a tow to Stan’s?”

“Stan’s?”

“Autoshop on the corner of Farley and Pine.” He leans in conspiratorially. “Ain’t as good as Mellie, but…” He shrugs. The implication that since Thomas had rejected his help, and therefore Mellie’s, he should have to suffer sub-par car repair hangs in the air between them. Clyde turns to the counter behind him and starts pulling out various bottles.

Thomas winces. He’s going to have to admit he’s useless. A useless, lying, car-ignorant, coward. “No.” He sighs. “It’s still quite broken, and hopefully still where I left it in that godforsaken wooded hellhole.”

Clyde pauses in his perusal of the bottles. Frowns. “You left it behind? How’d you get here, then?”

It shouldn’t be a painful admission. He shouldn’t care what this man-mountain thinks. But he still has to force the words out. “...I walked.”

“You walked? From the holler?”

He blinks. “The..?” He’s no idea what that means but can make assumptions based on context. What does it matter, though? Irritation prickles at his spine. “Yes, I walked. Do you think I’m soaked to my underwear through choice?” It is probably a little mean to snap but Clyde’s incessant prying and his own embarrassment at the situation is making him feel defensive.

Clyde’s eyes widen and he looks like he’s taking in Thomas’ bedraggled state for the first time. He looks horrified, as if Thomas’ state is a personal affront, and Thomas opens his mouth to squeeze in a profuse apology before Clyde has a chance to explode, but all he manages is a squeaked _sorry_ before Clyde cuts him off. 

“Why’re you sitting here in wet clothes? Haven’t you got nothing dry in that bag of yours? You’ll catch a chill.” 

It’s the most animated Thomas has seen him, but his anger doesn’t actually appear to be directed at Thomas, despite what he’d initially thought. And why hadn’t he thought to get changed? He’s been so busy worrying about how soon is too soon to ask to borrow a phone, and whether or not Clyde thinks he’s an idiot that it hadn’t even occurred to him to change. He motions for Clyde to give him a second and slips off the stool to check in his suitcase but it rapidly becomes apparent that his ‘waterproof’ suitcase is far from it. (The manufacturers will be receiving a strongly worded email if he ever makes it home.) 

“It appears I’m stuck like this,” he says, smiling apologetically as he settles back on the stool. “Everything soaked through. Not to worry.”

“No, no. It’s not right, you sat there cold and wet. Mawmaw always said you hadn’t oughtta sit in wet clothes. You’ll get yourself sick and ruin your vacation. Wait there.”

He mutters something that sounds vaguely self-deprecating under his breath, and then slides over the countertop—he makes it look so effortless, it surely can’t be that easy for a man of his size?—and disappears through the door he’d gone through to get the tea.

He can’t be gone for more than five minutes but it feels like at least twenty with all the curious pairs of eyes Thomas can feel on him. He tries to look as unobtrusive as possible and sips his tea in silence. He deliberately doesn’t look at the door Clyde left through, nor does he look towards the angry woman who is no doubt scowling at him from her perch at the corner of the bar, though he’s certain can feel her scrutiny more than anyone else’s. He’s going to have to ask Clyde who she is when he returns—if he’s going to get stabbed on his way to the loos, he’d rather know in advance why it’s happening. 

When Clyde finally returns he has what looks like a bundle of rags in his hands. 

He thrusts the bundle at Thomas and, confused, Thomas accepts, all thoughts of angry patrons slipping from his mind. “What’s this?” he asks, carefully holding the bundle away from himself. There could be a dead squirrel wrapped up inside for all he knows. 

“Clothes,” Clyde replies, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world to offer a stranger a bundle of clothes in a bar. (Perhaps it is here, Thomas thinks.) “You know, because your clothes are wet. You gotta change before you catch a chill.” 

“You brought me a change of clothes?” Thomas wonders if he’s dreaming. This can’t real. Who is this man? 

Clyde’s lips twitch into a lopsided smile. “It’s nothin’. Just some spares I had laying around out back.” 

“They’re _your_ clothes?” He glances up at Clyde, then down at himself. Back up at Clyde again. Specifically at Clyde’s shoulders. “You’re aware that there’s a not-insignificant discrepancy between our respective body masses?”

“If you’d rather sit there in a puddle…” Clyde shrugs and reaches for the bundle.

“No, no! Gosh, sorry, no, of course not.” He titters and then quickly slaps a hand over his mouth to prevent any more of the ridiculous sound from escaping. “Sorry. I didn’t mean— nevermind. Thank you. I’ll just—” He frowns, scanning the bar for a loo or somewhere he can change. Surely Clyde doesn’t expect him to change in front of everyone…? He leans towards Clyde and lowers his voice “—um, I don’t suppose you could tell me where I might find the little boy’s room?”

“The..? Oh, right.” Clyde smiles, drags a hand through his hair, and Thomas’ stomach does a little somersault. “Restroom’s in the back.” He cocks a thumb over his shoulder and Thomas spots the neon ‘RESTROOMS’ sign that he really should have been able to notice without assistance. It’s too late to worry about that now, though.

He thanks Clyde and shuffles off, throbbing feet and aching thighs protesting every step. One door is marked with a cowboy smoking a cigarette, whereas the door next to it features a barely clothed busty blonde. Interesting. He takes his chances with the cowboy and is relieved to find a stainless steel urinal trough along one wall and one lone stall in the corner, along with the pungent aroma of stale urine and that musky-armpitty smell which immediately makes Thomas curl his lip in disgust. Definitely the gents.

Aroma aside, though, it’s not the most unpleasant toilet he’s been in. It’s a long way off the comfort of Harrod’s—the measure by which Thomas judges all other public facilities—but there is at least the smell of bleach overlaying everything so it must have been cleaned fairly recently. He hopes.

Once in the cramped stall, he unwraps the bundle. He’s not sure why he bothers with a stall once he notices the wide gaps between the door and the door frame _on all sides_ but psychologically it at least gives him the illusion of privacy. And he’s glad of that when he discovers a pair of boxers in the middle of the bundle. Boxers. Clyde has given him his _underwear._ If he hadn’t been so wary of the cleanliness of the floor, he would have sat down. 

*

The clothes are, obviously, far too big, but they’re warm and dry, and the worn fabric is wonderfully soft against Thomas’ skin. And they smell like Clyde, which is… nice. It makes his stomach do funny wobbly things. And… he may have pressed his face into the shirt and had a good sniff before sliding his arms into the forest-green cotton, imagining how it would have looked stretched around Clyde’s behemoth frame. (He tries not to think about where the boxers might have been and where they are now. They’re soft too.) They’re of a height so the jeans shouldn’t have been too long, but they’re larger around the waist than he’s used to wearing and hang low off his hips, meaning he’s had to turn them up to avoid them dragging along the floor. The t-shirt Clyde had lent him is a washed-out black, the name _John Denver_ emblazoned across the chest in cracked, faded yellow lettering along with a picture of someone who Thomas can only assume is Denver himself. He hopes no one asks him about him—his knowledge stretches to that one song everyone knows that he can’t remember the name of. The green shirt was almost comically large. He’d tried tucking it into the jeans, thinking that the extra material would help pad out his waist and stop the jeans falling to his knees, but the result looked even more ridiculous so he’d left it loose, unbuttoned, and rolled the sleeves to his elbows. It still looks ridiculous, but more intentional, like those teenagers in baggy clothes he used to eye warily in Harrod’s. 

He feels incredibly self-conscious stepping out into the bar, over-sized clothes hanging off his frame, like a little boy playing dress-up in his dad’s clothes. He has the damp bundle of his old clothes under one arm, and with his other hand he surreptitiously holds up the jeans, but then he catches Clyde staring at him. Something about the intensity of his gaze, something about the way his mouth is slightly ajar, the way he’s not moving, hand gripping the bar, makes Thomas stop. Clyde whips his gaze away as soon as he sees Thomas watching him but Thomas wonders what he's done wrong. Does he have loo paper stuck to his shoe? Are the jeans on backwards? But no... everything seems to be in order. He'd even made an attempt to tidy up his hair in the age-speckled mirror. 

Shaking off his concern, Thomas resumes his spot at the bar. 

“Thank you for the clothes,” he says as he slips onto the same stool as before and drops his soggy clothes on top of his suitcase. 

“You’re welcome.” Clyde ducks his head and doesn’t meet Thomas’ eye. “They suit you better than me,” he says. His words are so quiet that Thomas isn’t sure he heard him right; would have assumed he’d misheard were it not for the delightful blush darkening Clyde’s cheeks. _Interesting._

“I’m pretty certain that’s utter nonsense, but thank you.” He laughs. “I can’t put into words how nice it is to be dry again, although my shoes will probably take an age to dry out.”

“Shoot. I didn’t get you anything dry for your feet. I don’t have nothing here myself, but Mellie often leaves slip-ons in the back for if her feet hurt and I can ask—”

“Oh! No, sorry, that wasn’t a complaint. Please, you’ve already done more than enough. In fact, let me buy you a drink or something. It’s the least I can do.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“I insist. Come on, humour me. If you weren’t working, what would you be drinking?” 

“Uh, beer, probably.” Clyde pauses. Frowns. Looks as he wants to say something but is doubting himself. Thomas nods in what he hopes is an encouraging fashion. It works and Clyde continues: “Though… if I was out somewhere nice or… or with someone special, I suppose I might have a bourbon.”

Thomas grins. “Okay, bourbon it is. Top shelf! Cost is no issue.” He’s not sure what he’s doing. It feels a little bit like flirting, but… no. He’s probably just giddy from the stress of the day on top of too much sugar and not enough food. He’s paying back a kindness. With alcohol. To a man who owns a bar… Ah. He probably could have come up with something a little more creative now he thinks about it.

“Sure. You’re joining me, though. I ain’t drinking alone. And you need something stronger than that tea to warm you properly.”

He’s not much of a drinker outside of a glass or two of wine in the evenings, but Thomas finds himself agreeing readily. He watches in fascination as Clyde takes his time selecting a bottle and pours out two generous measures of the spirit. 

“Cheers,” Thomas says, raising his glass after Clyde slides it across the counter to him. He takes a small, testing, sip—the smell alone is enough to make his eyes prickle—and then hisses at the burn as the bourbon heats him from the inside out. It’s a good burn, though, and it sends a shiver down his spine. Although, that could have been caused by the way Clyde was watching him over the top of his glass.

“Cheers,” Clyde murmurs back to him when their eyes meet.

They drink in silence for a few moments, but it doesn’t feel quite as awkward as before. Thomas doesn’t think he’s imagining the glances that linger a touch too long, the shy smiles. Or is he? He’s been wrong about this sort of thing before—he’s certainly not about to do anything too bold, like for confirmation—but he can look; can try to convey his want with a few cunningly placed hooded looks. There are questions on his tongue; he wants to know absolutely everything about Clyde, climb inside his mind and drown in him. He wants Clyde to talk and talk and talk so he can sit there and bask in his accent; in the deep, rumbling tone of his voice. But the quiet is also enjoyable. He could sit here in silence all night, just relishing Clyde’s proximity. 

Their eyes catch again. He holds Clyde’s gaze with his own and the moment feels thick and heavy, like being stuck in treacle. There’s something there, he’s sure of it. It can’t all be in his imagination. Clyde likes him. Possibly. Probably. And not in a ‘serial killer after his organs’ kind of way. Of all the places in the world… stumbling into someone he likes who actually appears to like him back… He should do something like… like ask for Clyde’s number or… or —

“Clyde! You got customers and I ain’t covering for you all night while you jabber to Red.”

Clyde flushes and glares at the woman who’d interrupted their moment. It’s the angry dark-haired woman, Thomas realises. The one who’s been glaring daggers at him all night. Why does she care who Clyde talks to? Before he can ask Clyde about her thouhgh, he’s gone, rushing over to the woman and then just standing there while she appears to berate him. 

Thomas sighs and takes another sip of his drink. He supposes it was too much to hope that he might have gotten Clyde to himself for the entire evening. 

*

Thomas isn’t sulking. He isn’t. But he’s more than halfway through his second bourbon now and there’s a chance he’s a little tipsy. Clyde had busied himself with serving patrons and clearing tables following his chat with the angry woman, only pausing briefly to top up Thomas’ glass, and so Thomas hasn’t had anything to do but stew while replaying their interrupted moment over and over in his head. He really doesn’t think he imagined it, the connection he felt, the sense that his attraction to Clyde might be mutual, but now Clyde appears to be avoiding him, so maybe he had concocted the whole thing in his head. 

“I don’t think your girlfriend likes me much,” Thomas says when Clyde stops to top his drink up a third time. He’s going to be on the floor within the hour at this rate. The sensible part of his brain that is still just about functioning tells him to take it slow. A much larger part, though—the part that isn’t used to such strong alcohol, especially on an empty stomach—is already at the stage where tipsy is fast tumbling into drunk and sensible decisions are easily ignored. This is also the part that stokes his jealousy and makes him forget that he has zero claim on this kind-hearted stranger, and that a few stolen glances (that were quite possibly imagined) do not amount to a torrid love affair or make grounds for excessive possessiveness.

Clyde freezes mid-pour and the liquid sloshes dangerously close to the lip of the glass. He looks distressed. “Girlfriend? Who—?”

“That woman you were talking to.” Uncertainty creeps in as Clyde goggles at him, nudging at Thomas’ brain and dislodging the jealousy that had settled there. “You mean… She’s not?” Thomas asks, hope staining his words. He looks at the woman; for once she’s not actually glaring at him. And for the first time, he notices the blond man beside her, arm around her waist.

When Clyde notices where Thomas is looking, he snorts out a laugh and Thomas would have thought he looked cute if he hadn’t been the cause of the laughter.

“I fail to see the humour. Is she—”

“Mellie!” Clyde shouts at the woman, and suddenly, belatedly, the dots connect in Thomas’ frazzled mind. His _sister._ Of course. “Mellie, come say hi to Thomas, the guy who needs the tow.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Thomas plasters on his best smile as she approaches. He holds out a hand but Mellie keeps her arms folded across her chest, gaze assessing as it passes over him. “Clyde’s told me all about you,” he says, awkwardly dropping his hand to his side.

“Has he now. Nice to finally be introduced,” Mellie says, raising an eyebrow pointedly at Clyde.

“Not now, Mellie,” Clyde mutters, and Thomas gets the impression that he’s missing something significant.

“What’s wrong with it then?” she asks.

Thomas blinks. _Wrong with what?_ He doesn’t have a clue what is happening right now, and as much as he wants to blame the alcohol, he isn’t sure he can. She reminds him of a floor manager he’d worked under for a couple of years at Harrod’s who’d constantly kept him feeling wrong-footed. He flaps his mouth uselessly and utters a few nonsense vowels.

“He thought it over-heated, but I guess it was worse than that. Couldn’t see nothing obvious when I looked, though. You think Hank’ll take a look if you ain’t got the time?”

Mellie sighed and pursed her lips. Thomas watches on as the two siblings appear to hold an entire conversation without saying a word. “Oh Clyde, you really gotta stop picking up these strays. One day one of them’s gonna bite you in the ass.”

Clyde looks scandalised. “I ain’t—”

“Just gimme the keys and tell me where it is. I’ll look it over tomorrow,” she says to Thomas, before turning to Clyde, finger outstretched. “You owe me.”

“Thank you, so much.” Thomas lets out a relieved breath. He fishes his keys out from his jumble of soggy clothes and hands them over.

“I’m not making any promises, mind. It may be there’s nothing can be done.” She takes the keys, looking between Thomas and Clyde, something sly lurking in the narrowing of her eyes. “I’ll let Clyde know what needs doing and what it’ll cost you.” 

“Mellie—” Clyde protests, at the same time as Thomas says: “Oh, but I don’t have his number—”

“There’s a real simple way to rectify that.” She smiles, while Clyde looks a little like he’s being choked. “Clyde, be a good boy and ask Red for his number or how’re you gonna tell him about his car?” Thomas wonders if this is how all siblings act. They’re saying words and he understands them but… it’s like there’s a whole other conversation going on behind them and the meaning stays frustratingly out of reach.

“Told you Mellie’d sort it,” Clyde says after she’s gone. “Uh, so, you should give me your number. You know, so I can pass on anything she wants you to know.” He slides over a napkin and a pen then stands back, rubbing at his arm above the prosthetic. 

“Right! Yes, absolutely.” Thomas scribbles his name on the napkin, adding an unnecessary flourish to the T in his name, but thankfully catching himself before he adds a kiss below the number. That’s definitely the alcohol’s fault. “You’ve been so helpful. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.”

Clyde shrugs, smiles. folds up the napkin carefully and slides it into his pocket. “It’s nothing. Anyone woulda done the same.” He lifts the bottle and gestures to Thomas’ empty glass.

Thomas nods and nudges the glass towards Clyde. “They really wouldn’t, you know. You’ve gone above and beyond. Truly, thank you.” 

“You’re most welcome.” Clyde smiles more broadly this time, and warmth spreads through Thomas’ chest completely unconnected to the bourbon he’s now four glasses deep into.

*

The conversation meanders pleasantly as the evening progresses, Clyde always settling across the counter from Thomas when he’s not pouring drinks or clearing up, easily picking up the conversation where they left it. He brings Thomas a basket of fries, onion rings, and chicken tenders when Thomas mentions offhandedly how he can’t remember when he last ate. Thomas switches from bourbon to beer—something light and citrusy at Clyde’s suggestion—and congratulates himself for making a sensible drinking decision. Clyde asks about Thomas’ holiday and seems amused by his tales of rampant wildlife both here and at home, while Thomas asks Clyde about the bar, about his family, and finds out about something he calls the Logan family curse. It’s easy to forget he’s not here through choice, that Clyde isn’t an old friend. He’s not felt so comfortable around someone in a long time. It feels like it was with Bea at the start, but… but more. More intense. Bigger. He feels like he could sit here, talking to Clyde forever. 

“I hope there’s a motel nearby because there’s no way I’m making it if it’s further than a few metres away,” Thomas says after he returns from a trip to the loo. “I think I have trench foot. Do you think that’s possible? I wonder how long you need wet feet for that to become an issue? I hope the blisters don’t get infected. That would be a nightmare. Perhaps if I crawl…?” He trails off as he spots a few stray fries in his basket and only then notices Clyde’s horrified expression. He’s dimly aware that he’s been rambling a fair bit, which tends to happen when he gets drunk, but he didn’t think he’d said anything particularly contentious. 

“You don’t have anywhere to stay? What about your friend?”

“My—? Oh, right…” He vaguely remembers mentioning a friend earlier in the day. “I may have implied said friend was a little closer, geographically speaking, than she is.”

Clyde frowns.

“She’s in England. And it’s her fault I’m here, so technically she does know where I am… just not _where_ precisely, so…”

“Huh. She told you to come to West Virginia?”

“No, she demanded I take a holiday and I—having never really done ‘holidays’—decided that driving around the US sounded nice. In hindsight, I probably should have booked a cottage in the Highlands or one of those package holidays to Majorca.”

Clyde’s frown deepens, and even in his inebriated state, Thomas realises he’s said something wrong. 

“Um, perhaps you could recommend me somewhere to stay?” he continues, deciding to press on and ignore the strange atmosphere that he’s managed to create. “Nothing too fancy, but I’d prefer somewhere with a bath. And a shop nearby, or a restaurant as I’ll need to get breakfast… Oh, and a laundrette as I’d quite like to give my clothes a wash to get the rain smell out of them. They’ve probably started to go musty already, and—”

“You can stay at mine.” 

Thomas’ brain grinds to a halt. “…What?”

“I mean, if you don’t mind waiting ‘til I close up the bar, that is. But I have a couch and it’s late. You can’t go wandering about the streets now.”

“You’re serious? I don’t want to be a bother.”

Clyde rolls his eyes. “I wouldn’t have offered if it was a bother. I got a bath, food for breakfast. Washer-dryer.”

“Um…” He briefly recalls his previous thoughts about Clyde potentially being a serial killer and childhood warnings about not getting into cars with strangers. Stranger danger, and all that. But… Clyde’s not a stranger now, is he? They’ve known each other for a few hours at least. “Okay.” He shakes his head, huffs out a laugh. He’s actually going to do this. Stay overnight with a man he’s just met. “Okay, yes. Why not? Thank you.” Clyde smiles and Thomas thinks then that he’d agree to anything he suggests. “Um, I don’t suppose I can bother you for more of these?” He lifts up the empty basket of tenders.

“Sure thing, Thomas.” 

Their fingers brush as Clyde takes the basket from him and Thomas bites his lip against the faint moan that tries to escape. Whatever is going on, he really hopes he doesn’t screw it up. 

*

Thomas is drunk. It is now an indisputable fact. He follows Clyde on uncertain legs as he leads Thomas through his house, showing him cupboards and rooms that probably have some meaning, but all Thomas can think about is putting one foot in front of the next without stumbling into a bin or a dresser. Clyde’s house isn’t far from the bar, off a larger road, and down a short track (he thinks. Thomas is a bit hazy on the details) and it’s larger than he’d expected. Nice. Looks new. 

The rest of the night had passed in a blur of soft glances, smiles, Clyde’s delicious accent curling around him like a fleece blanket, and far more alcohol than was sensible. Thomas had enjoyed himself more than he could remember doing in far too long. How long had it been exactly, since he’d propped up a bar? Before he’d moved to Windermere, for sure. He and Bea had never really been ‘pub’ types, popping to the local for a Sunday lunch on occasion but never staying for long. And back in London, he’d avoided it as much as possible, only venturing out when forced to for colleague-related celebrations. He’s not sure why he’d been so reluctant now. It had been fun. Although much of that enjoyment had stemmed from watching Clyde as he worked, talking to Clyde whenever he had a spare moment, and catching his eye as he spoke to others.

“Thomas? You alright?” Clyde’s concerned tone drags Thomas’ mind back to the present. This is the Bathroom. Right. Important. He needs to remember this.

“Perfectly, absolutely wonderful. I love your house. It’s very house-like. Nice. You have… chairs—” he pats a chair he finds beside him, “—and lots of other furniture which is always a good thing. Did I ever tell you about the first time I laid eyes on my house? Inheritance jobby, you know how it is. And it was full— _FULL_ —of wildlife, rotting veg, animal excrement. Disgusting.”

Clyde is grinning. That must be a good sign. “You did tell me, yes. A couple of times now.”

“Oh, sorry.” He purses his lips, tries to think of something new to say so that Clyde doesn’t get bored and make him sleep in the garden. _Would he do that?_

“You can tell me again. I don’t mind. I like hearing you talk.”

 _Oh._ Thomas can’t help the grin that spreads across his face. “That’s… that’s good. Since I rather like talking. Especially once I’ve had a few. I’m so sorry. I ramble. A lot. I’ve been told many times. You really don’t mind?”

“I really don’t. Anyway, as I was saying. This here is the bathroom. Help yourself to anything you want.”

Thomas makes a show of peering into the room but his mind is elsewhere. He likes Clyde, he’s decided. Quite a bit, actually. And he thinks there’s a chance Clyde might like him, but he doesn’t have a whole lot of experience with affairs of the heart and what-have-you. Giving someone your clothes, feeding them, offering them a bed for the night—they are all essentially just friendly gestures and Thomas knows he could be reading too much into their meaning. The lingering glances could have been a figment of his hopeful imagination. He needs a definite sign. Unambiguous words, clearly stated, so there’s no room for misinterpretation. 

While he talks himself out of acting too boldly, he’s vaguely aware of Clyde’s voice rumbling beside him, those exotic vowels, the cadence slow and thick like honey. He can sense his body, so close, and it wouldn’t take much at all to gently lean back... 

He catches movement out of the corner of his eye and he turns just in time to see Clyde leaning in towards him. His breath catches. Time slows down. This is it! The sign he’s been waiting for! He knew he hadn’t been mistaken. He closes his eyes, leans in to meet Clyde halfway, lips puckered. He can’t believe his luck. It’s finally happening. He feels dizzy with the bone-deep want coursing through him. They’re so close, he can feel the heat radiating from his strong, powerful body. He imagines being taken fully into Clyde’s arms, and how safe he would feel, how adored…

And then finally, _finally_ their lips meet. Clyde’s lips are warm and full and so soft. He smells like tobacco and beer and fried food. His beard tickles Thomas’ face, and... and… and Clyde’s not moving. Why isn’t he moving?

Clyde isn’t just not moving. He’s barely breathing. Thomas opens his eyes and is immediately struck by the stomach-curdling, heart-stopping realisation that Clyde hadn’t been leaning in for a kiss. It’s like being dunked in ice. His stomach sinks so fast he thinks he might throw up. 

Clyde hadn’t been trying to kiss him. 

He didn’t kiss back. He didn’t want to kiss Thomas. Thomas has just assaulted his rescuer with his lips.

Clyde looks mortified. Maybe he’ll be the one to throw up. He’s just been assaulted by his drunken house guest after all. Thomas opens his mouth to apologise but his entire vocabulary has been frightened into non-existence by sheer embarrassment.

Thomas steps back and covers his mouth with his hand. Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit. Clyde doesn’t like him, not like that, not in a kissy way. Why isn’t he saying anything? He should be shouting. Yelling at Thomas to get out.

“I… I… The door. I was just, uh, shutting the door. Cat’ll pee on the bathmat otherwise,” Clyde stammers out. God. He can barely look at Thomas. He’s probably disgusted. Thomas has heard about these out-of-the-way places leaning more… conservative—is he going to be strung up and burned for being a teensy bit gay?

“I am so sorry. Really. So, so sorry. I honestly don’t know what came over me,” he manages to say. “This isn’t like me at all. I—”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Clyde replies, backing away another half step. It is clearly not fine.

“Look, don’t worry about it. I’ll go. Just give me a moment to call a taxi and—”

“No, no, you can stay. Please. I just… I gotta…” Clyde gestures over his shoulder and then lumbers down the corridor, shutting himself in his room. The silence following the bang of his door makes Thomas’ ears hum.

He groans and smacks himself in the face. He’s an idiot. A randy, sex-starved idiot. He uses the bathroom, since it’s right there, and then manages to find his way to the couch. It’s not a fold-out, but it’s large and comfortable and he doesn’t think he’d have had any problems sleeping on it, had he not just acted like a massive arse. Clyde had left out a pair of shorts and another t-shirt—Bob Seger this time—for him to use as pyjamas, and there is a glass of water on the coffee table that he hadn’t even noticed Clyde getting. It makes Thomas’ chest tighten, seeing this small display of kindness and remembering how he’d ruined any chance of future kindness. 

He’s not sure how long he lays there, the room gently spinning, listening to the sounds of the house settling, the rain against the windows, the _thunkthunkwhirr_ of the washing machine. He replays the look of horror in Clyde’s face, the speed at which he’d fled, over and over until it blurs with his memories of the entire evening. Everything tainted by Clyde’s revulsion. His indisputable rejection of Thomas’ (drunken) advances.

He’ll leave first thing, Thomas decides. Grab his clothes from the dryer and leave before Clyde wakes. Screw the car. He’ll walk to the nearest airport and get the first flight home.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come find me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/coriesocks) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/coriesocks) @coriesocks <3


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